vampires and foxes and the living and the undead and lalalaa~♫
A drabble requested by Takato~ ^_^
volpeprocella & lightningblood - feeding
~ * ~
One. Two. Three. Seconds counting. Each uneven drop of blood. A continuous heartbeat. One. Two. And three. He is laughing, even though no sound escapes the curved line of his lips, and his eyes dance with mirth to a melody only he knows. But Lambo can hear it too. One. Two. And then three.
Life pulses in those veins, and the young lad -- will always be a young lad to him -- feasts greedily, fangs latched unto his jugular and drinking, spilling and wasting. "Such a messy eater," Fon reprimands softly, tantalizingly sweet, awfully alluring
like onyx stones or black pebbles, the color of coals and the smear of ash and soot;
like the dusky skies that eats away the fire left behind by the sunset;
like flowers and wood, the dew on the grass, the humid mist and the pleasant rain;
like the earth, sand slipping from fingers, the feel of aging wood beneath the tips;
the white of snow,
the reflection of waters,
the smolder of violent fires.
One. Two. And finally, three. The vampire pulls away and smacks his lips, shaking hands grasping at hips, feeling the weight of willowy arms around his shoulders and slender thighs gripping his waist. One. His tongue darts out to trail up the path of a red-raw neck. Two. It is life he tastes, -- the very breath of nature, the voice of the earth, the essence of the living -- and not mere blood, not the red painted over white nor the red matting black -- it is life, colorless and intangible, on Fon's skin, on his lips, and it is impossibly sweeter. Three.
~ fin ~
volpeprocella & lightningblood - feeding
~ * ~
One. Two. Three. Seconds counting. Each uneven drop of blood. A continuous heartbeat. One. Two. And three. He is laughing, even though no sound escapes the curved line of his lips, and his eyes dance with mirth to a melody only he knows. But Lambo can hear it too. One. Two. And then three.
Life pulses in those veins, and the young lad -- will always be a young lad to him -- feasts greedily, fangs latched unto his jugular and drinking, spilling and wasting. "Such a messy eater," Fon reprimands softly, tantalizingly sweet, awfully alluring
like onyx stones or black pebbles, the color of coals and the smear of ash and soot;
like the dusky skies that eats away the fire left behind by the sunset;
like flowers and wood, the dew on the grass, the humid mist and the pleasant rain;
like the earth, sand slipping from fingers, the feel of aging wood beneath the tips;
the white of snow,
the reflection of waters,
the smolder of violent fires.
One. Two. And finally, three. The vampire pulls away and smacks his lips, shaking hands grasping at hips, feeling the weight of willowy arms around his shoulders and slender thighs gripping his waist. One. His tongue darts out to trail up the path of a red-raw neck. Two. It is life he tastes, -- the very breath of nature, the voice of the earth, the essence of the living -- and not mere blood, not the red painted over white nor the red matting black -- it is life, colorless and intangible, on Fon's skin, on his lips, and it is impossibly sweeter. Three.
~ fin ~